One's Self Less, Less One's Self
by d.honey
Summary: They're both too weak, not to punish


Title: One's Self Less; Less One's Self

Theme: Pillar of Strength (#83) - taken from 101 kisses

Genre: Drama/Angst

Rating: R

* * *

She heard somebody scream from the fourth door on the left. She barreled her way down the dingy hallway and into it the unlocked door, her hair suddenly more golden, her skin strangely more tan.

Seeing the man on top of a smaller being, she thrust her hand out, expecting a chain of hearts. When none came, she cursed in a language only the females in the building could understand and flung herself at the heaving male.

The tackle rolled them off the bed, to the floor with a dull thud, simply lost amongst all the other thumping in the other rooms.

Hoisting him up by his half-open shirt, she dragged him and his flailing limbs to the door of the room. Throwing him forcefully enough to make him stumble into the opposite side of the hallway, she hissed, "OUT!"

She knew she didn't need to say more. Senshi or not, they knew they couldn't try that kind of stuff here. Not in her place. Not with her girls.

Grasping the shabby wall to regain balance, the man pulled himself upright and spat at her feet. "Venerean!"

As he marched past the numerous doors, she held herself tightly in check, fearing if she moved, she would run after him and beat him with everything in her. She thought of all the things she could've done to him, all the things he would never have dared, all the things, before…

Breathing in shakily, she turned to the girl remaining in the room who sat upon the bed, defeated and half-naked. Venus walked inside, closely the door gently and sitting beside her.

"Anything permanent?"

The girl shook her head no, then held out her arms so Venus could see the red marks where bruises might eventually form.

She thought of how much money it might bring in, if she could find someone willing to be a knight-in-shining-armor willing to rescue the foreigner-who-was-just-trying-to-get-by-on-what-she-could.

She hated herself for it.

But she could not help being relieved when the younger girl said, "Give me an hour or so. I'll be ready then."

Venus stroked the girl's back once and left the room.

* * *

Venus had just finishing convincing a bright-eyed boy that he might be the one to help, if he could be patient, if he could be gentle, if he would take his time, then the bruised girl might open up to him. Who knew what lay underneath?

Sending him down to the fourth door on the left, Venus heard a voice carry over, harsh and amused, "I suppose that never gets old."

She turned to look at him. How much better and how much younger he looked than she! He was still every bit the victorious king, from his polished shoes to his immaculately combed unblemished white hair. The arrogant way he stood, the undeterred way he still looked her in the eyes, after everything that had happened – it all spoke volumes to her more-than-necessary made-up face, her too-deep and revealing neck line, her slumped and bared shoulders that still connected to an upright back.

"I'll be in the last room down the hall," he said over his shoulder, already sauntering towards it.

* * *

Hours later, she entered her room, listening to his deep breathing indicating sleep. She sat on the bed, staring at him, and waiting for him to awake.

His arms pulled her down to him, so they spooned together quietly. His hand wandered to her nipples, touching them gently, rolling, lightly pinching, sometimes just cupping her breast.

Eventually, his hand moved down to her legs, tightly squeezed together. Easing a finger between them as they reluctantly parted, he began a gentle motion that as of yet had never failed.

One day, it would.

Today, it moved upon rolling hips forced out from her body. They jerked and jumped rigidly instead of the sensual wave she once gave him.

Turning her to lay atop him, his fingers stroked every body part he could reach: her upper arms, softer with less use; her collarbone, more pronounced with less appetite; her stomach, less defined with less need; fingers, still callused with hard work; shoulders, lower with defeat, but still back with pride and spite.

He touched her hair, less golden in Earth's light – moon or otherwise. He traced her face, feeling the powdery make-up concealing exhaustion, defeat, and determination. He felt her lips, sticky in the color purposefully put on.

When finally he pushed inside of her, pulling her hips down, it felt good. Their bodies wanted it: the stroke of something deeper, the feel of someone's body, the wetness, the tightness, the pleasure it always brought.

But inside, she hated being his whore, whom he did not even pay. She hated having sex in this place where it was about one-sided pleasure. She hated telling the girls to always give and never take, being the antithesis of who she had once been. She hated being reduced to a strong woman by their standards, when she had already proven herself worthier than any of the beings she had met. And she hated that worth, that so few knew about: it caused her to choose survival, to lead her people into a land that did not want them, was waiting to exile them, and was perfectly happy to shit on them while they were there.

She hated that she was strong enough to take that on.

So, she punished herself with sex that she wanted to hate with a man she couldn't hate in a place that had saved only after it destroyed.

Kunzite was there to oblige. He never wondered why he did it. He just saw it as one last way to help her get what she wanted.

It made it easier to hate himself for everything else he'd done.

* * *

end


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